


saudade (still, you do not answer)

by Mizzy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Bourne Legacy (2012)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Heartbreak, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2384942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's 'cognitive re-calibration' and Loki's mind-control magic conspire to knock something loose in Clint's mind.<br/>Something that was being hidden for a reason.<br/>Some<i>one.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	saudade (still, you do not answer)

**Author's Note:**

> Better late than never? Thanks to immoral-crow for the beta. ♥  
> Fanmix by [nessataleweaver](http://nessataleweaver.livejournal.com/27742.html) here.
> 
> Title is from Kanon Wakeshima's "Still Doll":
> 
> _Once again,_  
>  my heart has become cracked   
> and started bleeding.   
> I've tried to patch it up,   
> but pieces of my memory keep   
> sticking into the crevices.  
> ...  
> Still, you do not answer. 
> 
> #

There's probably only one reasonable response to having helped saved the world from being destroyed and ruled by megalomaniacal aliens, and that was finding the nearest bar and attempting to get as close to oblivion as alcohol could take you.

Natasha and Clint are the only ones to have that reasonable response, even though it takes them a couple of months to do so.

She's been busy. Saving the world again.

Natasha shouldn't be surprised that meeting the other Avengers didn't result in a bar crawl. Stark probably has a bar of his own. Bruce had to avoid alcohol to keep his careful control. Captain Rogers was incapable of getting drunk any more after the super serum.Director Fury probably fermented fruit in his own stomach and had no need to consume any extra alcohol.

(Natasha hasn't seen Thor since New York… but Thor probably had a hundred virgins and a river of mead, and he was probably still celebrating even now. Asgardians fought hard and partied hard in _all_ of the myths and legends.)

Natasha's Russian – or she used to be –so her alcohol tolerance is high: she tends to come out on top. It's how she likes things. She would have a drinking partner contender if Tony Stark ever tried to initiate a drinking contest with her – he's had several decades to perfect his tolerance levels –but she could easily drink Bruce or Clint under the table.

Although she didn't really think Clint would manage to get quite so shitfaced, quite so quickly. And drunk is probably _the_ best explanation for what happens.

But she's getting ahead of herself.

#

It starts when someone staggers into Clint, and Clint doesn't kill him, which is always a good start to a night or a bad start to a night, depending if they're on a job yet or not.

Natasha sizes up the man automatically – there are certain parts of being an assassin that don't ever turn off, even when you're on vacation. _Especially_ on vacation. It's practically assassin code, and they all know it: if you're killed by another pro, you're probably on vacation when it happens. Or trying to poach someone else's job.

Or jaywalking in New York, but that's always kinda silly.

This guy is maybe two hundred pounds, and too much of that weight is on his hips. Uneven teeth, receding hair, distinctive yellowing of his fingers; a blue-collar worker, underpaid, high levels of stress. Definite civilian. Probably from a poor background. Likely from a state on the same rough latitudinal line, based on a similar number of layers of clothing at a cool time of year. Musculature suggesting office work over manual labor, but not excessively difficult work – calluses on fingertips suggest a lot of typing, and men higher up the job ladder had assistants to type for them. Stress therefore from family situation, perhaps.

Threat level: minimum.

Except for the way Clint tenses when the guy croons, in a distinctive Nevada accent, perhaps Reno or Sacramento, " _Kenneth._ Kenneth J. Kitson, if I live or breathe. Man, I heard you died in the war. Shit, man, how _are_ you?"

Natasha freezes, just in case. People in their line of work amass an astounding number of cover identities and names, but Kenneth isn't one she's heard before, and that makes her instantly curious.

What makes her _especially_ curious is the way Clint reacts.

He stiffens, and he _pauses._ It doesn't matter if Clint is three layers _deep_ in alternate IDs (and there's been times when both of them have been pretending to be double-crossers while triple-crossing, and that's always a headache of an assignment) – pausing isn't in his usual repertoire at all.

After the pause, Clint shrugs, and it's a labored movement. "I'm sorry, man, you've got the wrong person."

The guy's obviously drunk, because Clint can't exactly hide his impressive muscles, or the way he tenses up, ready for a fight, and he keeps pushing on with behavior which any sober person would know was gonna bring them face to face with a pretty hard smackdown. "Naw, you're definitely him. Why are you saying you're not him? Kenneth, man, it's me, Joseph Pullens Jr., from—"

Joseph Pullens Jr. doesn't get to say where he thinks he knows where Kenneth J. Kitson should know him from, because Clint – and he must be drunk, he _has_ to be, because otherwise he's mind-controlled or something weirder is wrong and drunk is fixable – picks up Joseph by the scruff of his neck and smashes him face down into the bar.

Natasha sighs, and instantly drops off the barstool – random bar violence never has a good end of any sort – but Joseph Pullens Jr. must be here with an entourage, or he's related to the Maggia, because the whole bar gets to their feet and Natasha really bemoans the fact that closing the rift made her neat Chitauri staff blaster stop working.

She crouches, getting ready to help get Clint and herself out to safety, because escape with these numbers – and with Clint _this_ inebriated – is her priority.

Clint has another idea entirely. 

#

He takes out the whole bar.

Single-handedly.

#

Natasha doesn't like situations in life where she's stuck between a rock and a hard place. She has two people to call in a situation like this, and neither is a good option. Both will give her a headache.

But Tony Stark is probably the _lesser_ of two evils.

He turns up with his usual flourish and swagger. Even nearly dying doesn't dent Tony Stark's ego, and Natasha likes that. Stark's clever and brash and egocentric and ridiculously tender beneath the carefully constructed exterior, and he doesn't play mind games. Natasha likes him, but she'll never tell him that. His head still fits comfortably through most doorways; his ego will survive not being inflated any more. 

"Aw, didn't you want to call daddy?" Stark asks, leaning against a counter, and winking lasciviously at the nearest female detective. She lets out a huff and storms off. Stark leans out to watch her ass as she leaves the room. Natasha doesn't know how Pepper stands it.

Actually, she does; Pepper knows it's all an act. Pepper gets the real Tony Stark – still damaged as hell, and abusing sarcasm until the end of time, but ridiculously warm-hearted beneath all of that. Tony Stark had a hard shell around him even _before_ he constructed the Iron Man armor, and Pepper's spent years carefully deconstructing it. Pepper's far braver than any of the Avengers in that regard.

It's not surprising that Stark knows Fury's alive. Especially now Maria Hill is on his payroll. Natasha raises one eyebrow. It bugs Stark – she knows he wishes he was that suave. "And disturb his walkabout?"

Stark snorts, which is the closest he comes to laughing at a joke he didn't come up with. "You're scared of Fury too."

Natasha shrugs. "I'm sensible."

"Debatable," Stark says, because he's an ass, but Natasha knows that. She knows where she stands with him.

She thought she knew where she stood with Clint, but Clint took out an entire bar of people without breaking a sweat.

"What's the sitch?" Stark asks, when Natasha doesn't respond. She's the terse type. Stark is loquacious enough for all of them, probably. "Wait, is that the appropriate scary official lingo? What's the downlow? Sitrep?"

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Some jerk insisted Clint's name was Ken. Clint didn't agree. When the guy pushed, Clint dropped the bar."

"The… actual wooden bar?" Stark asks, straightening. He's a scientist, beyond everything else, and the curiosity focuses his dialogue away from jokes. "Or—?"

"Literally the whole complement of people in the bar," Natasha says. "I just stepped back and watched. The way he moved…" She trails off. She isn't often lost for words, it's just… there probably isn't one word that can convey it all.

It should be a word to convey terror, and shock, and – in a weird way – beauty. Natasha has always had an aesthetical appreciation of really creative violence.

But the word to describe Clint's outburst would also have to have connotations of nausea. An intimation of _I thought I'd found you again, and now I'm struck with fear that maybe you're still lost._

There can't be any one word that means all that, so Natasha just shrugs at Stark and says, simply, "Even I couldn’t have done what he did."

Those words are obviously enough, because Stark freezes. Maybe it's almost fear. He looks in the direction of the cells, his eyes a little wider than usual, and he's quieter when he asks, "What do we do? Should we leave him here?"

Natasha shrugs. "I need to get him to a medical facility. There's one downtown that's still operating for people like us. If he's… _compromised_ here, the civilian count would be high." She can't help her own voice quietening to match Stark's lower volume when she adds, "I think there's been enough death in New York for the moment."

Stark locks gazes with her, just for a minute, but it speaks more volume than any words can. They both know the costs of events like the Battle of New York.

It's always more than it seems on the surface, and it's always more than they're willing to pay.

"Well," Stark says, clapping his hands, "I think I can afford the bail. Let's get the Hawk out of the cage."

#

Clint's subdued as they escort him to the nearest medical facility – an innocuous looking arcade which hides a sleek, white medical bay. Since SHIELD was revealed to be corrupt from the inside-out, there weren't too many remaining SHIELD facilities running at peak efficiency; this is a private facility Natasha has used before. They're trustworthy, if you have the cash to pay.

Natasha has something better than cash. The security guard on the gate takes one look at Tony Stark before letting them through immediately.

Clint won't speak to them. Merely nods and looks haunted as they lead him in to speak to one of the doctors. 

Some guys with guns follow Clint into the nearest med bay with a pretty, slight doctor with brown hair and dark eyes. Natasha hovers outside. It would be a shame if the pretty doctor got messed up, but it would be more of a shame if Natasha wasn't close enough to stop Clint.

She'd be inside the med bay if she could, but facility protocol locks her outside the bay with Stark.

"I don't like this," Natasha mutters. She glances at Stark, who looks like he agrees. "I don't suppose you could have brought the Other Guy along."

"Bruce has gone south again," Stark explains. "More's the pity. He's not very amenable to my attempts to steal him for Stark Industries."

"Hm," Natasha replies, noncommittally.

Stark actually stays while the tests are run and Natasha is both grateful for it, and grateful that he doesn't push at the fact that she's clearly worried about them.

She supposes nearly dying for the same cause is a bond-creating moment. Natasha's spent so long not wanting to be attached to anyone, and now she's attached to _several_ people on an emotional level, and she should probably be much more horrified.

Emotions make you weak.

The kind of weak where she knows she can stand next to a group of people she admires, and save the world, and knock red from her ledger… it's probably not the worst kind of weak in the world. Besides, the world's pretty clear on the fact that there's strength in numbers. Natasha's life is all about balance, and sometimes you have to borrow from one thing to pay off another.

She probably wouldn't know what to do with herself if all her debts were clear.

#

The doctor comes out eventually, after hours have passed, with surprising news.

Clint's clear.

Natasha dissents and asks for a second opinion, because something isn't adding up right, but the doctor insists that Clint's 100% clear, maybe next time could Natasha steer Clint away from alcohol?

"So I'm fine?" Clint says, blinking several times.

"All clear," the doctor says.

The doctor looks sad for a moment, but it's more than that. It's an expression beyond sadness. _Saudade,_ she thinks. It's a Portuguese word that has no easy English expression, but it's about repressed longing for something that is loved and gone never to return, and it's elegiac and bittersweet and Natasha is almost swamped by a flood of empathy for the slight doctor.

She thinks she understands.

And she _knows_ the only reason she understands is because of Clint, and he's okay, so Natasha's okay. She'll embarrass herself any time for him.

Clint pauses at the threshold and looks back, and the doctor's expression switches from that infinitely sad _saudade_ into something more neutral.

Natasha frowns. The sadness lingers behind the doctor's eyes,despite the way her smile creases her face into a very pleasant sight.

"Take care, number five," she tells him, and firmly turns her back on them; the universal medical code for _you're dismissed_.

"Number five," Clint says, dully, and she turns back to face him. His eyes scrape the doctor's face for a moment, and she looks back at him warily. "I feel like that should mean something."

The doctor's smile goes tense. "It doesn't mean anything at all. It's just a number."

Clint nods, thoughtfully, and turns and leaves with Natasha, but the doctor's sad expression follows them, like a sour smell clinging to Natasha's skin.

#

Perhaps near-death changes a person, because Stark's not as much of an asshole about what's turned out to be Natasha wildly overreacting as he might have been before the Chitauri attack.

Not _as_ much. Stark's always a comparative experience.

Her relief, and Stark's (admittedly muted) teasing is all completely pre-emptive.

And completely wrong.

Because as soon as they exit through the outer doors of the fake-arcade disguising the facility, Clint drops.

Just drops to the ground. Shaking. Suddenly pale and clammy. He's having some sort of a fit, and Natasha reacts properly, because that's in her training, cushioning his head with her jacket and loosening his shirt so he can breathe, and talking to him calmly as he spasms, but it doesn't seem to be working.

Nothing seems to work, until the pretty doctor hurries out of the door, worry creasing her face, and he reaches out for her, through the panic.

"It didn't work," Clint tells her, desperate, and passes out.

Natasha prides herself on her restraint, because the doctor is clearly distressed, and genuinely upset about Clint, and she waits a whole five seconds before leaping forwards and grabbing the doctor.

"You can't take us back in there," the doctor says, wild-eyed and panicked. "It's not safe. If the government find out who he is, they'll kill him. And then they'll kill all of us. Believe me."

Natasha's a walking, killing lie detector, and although this doctor might be clinically insane, she obviously at least believes she's telling the truth. And if she's not insane, Clint's in danger, and Natasha doesn't even have to look at her priorities.

"We need help," Stark says, kneeling next to Clint, looking worriedly between the building and Clint's prone body, like something else weird might happen.

Natasha doesn't blame him. In their line of business, paranoia's the healthy option. She eyeballs his phone. "Who you gonna call?"

"I've got someone in mind," Stark says, and dials a number on his cellphone. He waits impatiently, tapping his foot in a staccato rhythm as Natasha hails them a cab.

The quicker they can get out of there, the more of a head start they can get on _whoever_ might be after Clint.

#

Apparently the first person Stark thought to call was Steve Rogers. Natasha's disappointed at first, because while Steve is about the best person to have at her back with Clint out of commission, she's not sure how much help Steve can be to Clint right now. 

Her disappointment fades when Steve Rogers comes out with the doctor's name without hesitation.

"You're Marta Shearing," Steve says, his voice clipped, all-business, despite the way his eyes say _how do I voluntarily end up in these weird situations._

The doctor's eyes widen, and she moves to pull something out of her pocket. Natasha's already moving, but she's too late – Clint wakens up just in time to put both of his hands on the doctor's hand.

"Marta," Clint says, "no."

The doctor — Marta — looks down at Clint, eyes wide with concern and wariness.

"Marta?" Stark blurts, head tilted to one side. "Wait, am I supposed to know who she is?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you knew her," Natasha mutters, automatically. Making fun of Stark and his womanising past is something she can apparently always do on auto-pilot.

No matter how lost and confused she is.

"Something happened about six years ago," Steve says. "I've been researching the last few years, trying to get a grip on current events. I saw your face online in some of the news archives. You're a virologist. One of your team members went mad and shot everyone in your lab but you. Marta Shearing. You disappeared off the edge of the planet, apart from a notice that I've seen on a couple of sites since, saying you were wanted for some crime or other."

The doctor – Marta – stares at Steve, her brown eyes flashing with worry and a glint which Natasha instantly recognizes, because it's something she recognizes intimately:

Danger.

Marta's dangerous. And because she's dressed as a harmless looking doctor, and she's pretty, and doe-eyed, she's very easy to underestimate as a threat.

Except Natasha doesn't underestimate anyone. Apart from herself sometimes.

Sometimes she even surprises herself with how far into the darkness she's prepared to go.

"Who are you?" Marta snaps at Steve, genuine worry dropping her voice several tones. "Are you Treadstone? Outcome?"

And Natasha suddenly understands. Her stomach creases uneasily.

"I'm gifted with an eidetic memory," Steve says. "Courtesy of a serum that altered my genetic structure."

" _And_ it gave him preternaturally fast skills at picking up new technology," Stark says. "He's already hacked into my schedule seven times this month, meaning I've turned up at _seven_ different charity events I historically just throw checks at. He's a menace and a _prodigy_. We'll totally talk when this is all done."

Stark sounds genuinely impressed. Steve turns slightly to Stark, and shrugs, like he doesn't know what to do with a compliment.

"Yeah," Steve says. "We'll talk. Probably about how _I_ was having a technology-free weekend to relax only to discover _someone_ slipped a Starkphone into my bag." 

Stark shrugs, unrepentant in how he managed to get hold of Steve in the first place. "There are laws about stealing. There are no laws about _anti-_ stealing."

"You mean giving," Clint mutters, rubbing his head.

"Yeah, you can talk," Stark says, almost sullenly. "Who are you?"

Marta shuffles, way too much guilt in the movement.

"You're going to have to talk to us, ma'am," Steve says, a stricter note sliding into his voice. "It's either us or we start researching some of those words you don't like. Treadstone. Outcome." He steps forward again, eyes locking with Marta's. "So what do you say?"

Steve steps in what turns out to be much too close to Marta for Clint's comfort.

Because otherwise, Clint probably wouldn't have gotten _quite_ so ballistic.

#

Natasha stays out of the way as they fight, shepherding both Marta and Stark away from potential harm and watching the two trade blows in complete distracted fascination.

The super serum Abraham Erskine gave Steve Rogers was legendary. It affected his cognitive skills (enhanced strategy, and apparently an unnaturally fast ability at picking up new skills, applying them, and memorizing reams of data) and his physical skills, putting him at a physical level far beyond even Natasha's.

Were Natasha to fight Steve, she might win. But it would be from either a form of strategy he hadn't had time to pick up yet that had been developed in the years he was frozen under the ice, or it would be from being sneakier and hoping Steve – with his intact moralistic and justice-oriented ideologies – would underestimate her.

Clint would tell her just to flash her boobs, but that was definitely cheating.

She runs through the rest of the Avengers, to think about how they might fare against Captain America. Iron Man's suit would have to be at full power, but if he could get around Steve's shield, he might have a chance. The Hulk, of course, would probably take Steve out pretty easily. Thor too.

Clint's the only one who should have a hard time – especially without his arrows, and even though Steve doesn't have his shield with him.

He's not only _not_ having a hard time, but he's kind of winning.

Right up until the point Steve realizes he can't hold back and he uses his full strength on Clint. And even then, the match is surprisingly even.

The secret Clint's been hiding has to be huge. _Huge._

Steve and Clint trade blows, and it's almost like a dance, and Natasha's wondering about how much sense it makes to jump into the fight and join Steve when someone else beats her to it.

Marta, human (possibly —although Natasha will discount nothing at this point, not when the floor is falling beneath her and nothing makes sense) fragile Marta, beats her to it.

She's not unarmed, though – and she gracefully slides a needle into Clint's neck, depressing it with one smooth motion.

Clint turns to her, eyes wide, and he slumps to the floor, unconscious.

Marta looks down at him with wide, unblinking eyes, as if she's wondering what it is she's done.

"I think," Steve says heavily, dropping to his knees and effortlessly picking Clint's unconscious body up to lay down on one of the stainless steel tables, "that you'd better explain to me what's going on."

"I think," Natasha says unevenly, "that I might be able to help."

Three pairs of eyes turn to her in unison.

Stark looks vaguely betrayed, but he's wrong. Natasha knows… but she didn't _know_ that she knew what Clint was.

Not until Steve started fighting with his full strength.

Because there's only one kind of person that could theoretically be able to fight Steve Rogers with that sort of display of strength.

Marta's worry about being killed if the Government 'found out' makes so much sense.

"What is it, Natasha?" Steve asks, chin tilted, his voice authoritative – it's not the shield and the uniform that makes him Captain America.

"He's from a special Government program based on Project Rebirth," Natasha says, with growing conviction.

"I… don't think to want to know about Project Rebirth," Marta mutters, her fingers lingering at Clint's wrist.

"And how do you know this?" Stark says.

Natasha tilts her head. "Because I used to be one of them too. I was something called a LARX."

And it's somewhat of a testament to Marta Shearing's strength and street-smarts that a gun drops carefully and rapidly into her hands a mere half a second after that announcement.

# 

"I take it you've heard of the LARX program?" Natasha asks, coolly looking down the barrel of Marta Shearing's gun.

"Run into a few of you," Marta says, her voice crystal clear and harsh. Her hand is steady. She's held a gun before. And Natasha would bet all of Stark's fortune that Clint taught her that grip. "I don't know if you two are this woman's friends, but I'd keep away from her. She's dangerous."

"Ma'am," Steve says, full politeness levels still effortlessly engaged despite the gun, "Natasha's been no threat to me over the last couple of months, and you've got a gun pointed at my friend's face. Understand where I'm having trouble ascertaining where the danger lies."

Marta shoots him a confused look. She shakes her head a little, like she's shaking cobwebs from her mind. "You keep strange company, LARX," Marta mutters. "What are you, number four? Number eight? I met number three and number six."

"Can someone put what's going on here into English?" Stark says, plaintively. Marta's gun doesn't move from where it is trained on Natasha. Clint's trained her well. "Because I finally understand why you all have that stupid vacant expression when I talk about science, and I'm terribly remorseful, but I'd really appreciate the Cliff Notes version of this conversation."

"I was a LARX," Natasha says, calmly, and jerks her head in Clint's direction. "He found me. It was on a mission to kill me, but instead, he took me to a facility in the Phillipines, I think. It's a blurry time. But he…" Her mouth wrinkles. "He unmade me." That had been his words, not hers. Deconstructing away some of what the government had done to her. Remaking her new.

Letting her be herself. Letting her feel again. The LARX program took away her emotion, and it took a long time for Natasha to understand and accept – once Clint gave it back to her – that it was a bad thing that they had taken her empathy away.

"So you're, what, a spayed LARX?" Marta makes a sound of disbelief.

"Still got the speed and some of the strength," Natasha says, with a shrug. She jerks her chin at Clint. "What is he? Touchstone? LARX as well?"

Marta shakes her head. It's a minute movement, but the message is clear. She looks like she's having a big internal struggle. Probably over whether to confide in them or not. "Everyone who we've told about this has ended up dead. Aa— _Clint_ —" And Marta's obviously having to hold back a name there. A name that's not even Kenneth J. Kitsom. Natasha's world continues to unmake itself, one hour at a time. "He saved me."

"He saved me too," Natasha says, willing Marta to understand that in the goal of saving Clint, they're definitely on the same side. "I'm not a LARX anymore."

"So you're saying you're not a threat," Marta says, clearly scoffing.

"I wouldn't go that far," Natasha allows. "But I'm not a threat to you," she adds.

And Marta's obviously considering the truth in it, because her gun grip wavers, and Natasha wants to make this work, but she always considers the best way to get results, so she's half-considering fighting Marta for the gun, when Clint wakes up from the sedative.

Screaming.

All the conflict is forgotten in the wave of it. Marta's gun drops to one side so she can hold his head, stopping him from hurting himself, and his eyes are wide. He tosses violently, obviously distressed. Natasha and Steve both hurry forward to calm him down. Steve takes advantage of Marta's distress to efficiently disarm her, and he holds her off to one-side as Natasha rushes in to tend to Clint.

"Clint," Natasha says, her eyes scanning his face desperately. " _Clint._ It's me. Natasha. Calm down."

"No," Clint murmurs, clearly delirious. "No."

"Calm down, you're safe," Natasha says, smoothing a hand down on his forehead. " _Miliy moy._ You're among friends."

"I'm not- There's not- It's not safe," Clint mutters, clearly distressed. "I can't-"

Natasha shakes her head, unsure of what to do, and it's paralyzing. She throws a helpless look at Stark, who bends his head and starts looking through his smartphone, maybe trying to find an expert who could help, she doesn't know.

It's Marta who manages to still him. "Aaron," she says, simply, the name carrying strong through the air. "It's okay. You're safe."

Clint convulses once more, but then turns to her, eyes suddenly going lax, and the most tender expression Natasha's ever seen on his face appearing. "Marta," he says, and smiles, and falls asleep.

#

Steve has to let Marta go. She tells them, in stuttering words, about Outcome. About Clint – Aaron – saving her life. About them going on the run, just trying to be safe.

But the process Marta attempted, to viral Aaron off the chems, didn't work. There were too many thoughts, she said, clouding up his head. And the physical augmentation was too much. It was burning him up, and soon there wouldn't have been anything left of him.

She only had one option.

Natasha can almost mouth the words along with Marta.

_Cognitive re-calibration._

The only way to keep Aaron safe, to help him keep that power in check, was to hide Aaron Cross away. To layer a new, safer personality over the top. One that never knew his true capabilities, and thus never tried to use them.

She didn't know seeing her, or hearing the phrase _number five,_ would ruin everything. Natasha fills in that gap: Loki's meddling and the subsequent knock to the head has left him vulnerable. Anything would have set him off. Maybe they were just cursed, to always be some variation of a ticking time bomb.

There's silence when Marta's tale comes to a close, and sadness, and Marta lies a trembling hand on Clint's forehead, and her face says it all.

_Saudade._ Repressed longing for something that is loved.

Something that is loved, and gone, never to return.

Natasha wonders how she would cope, with having Clint back for a brief, shining moment, and then having him ripped away again. Like if Loki had broken his bonds at the very end, and taken Clint away from her once more.

She doubts she would be taking it with as much poise as Marta Shearing.

"We'll help you, whatever you need," Stark promises. "I have so much equipment, and money, I can get you whatever you need to help him. To get him back."

Marta thanks him, but her expression is clear:

Aaron Cross is gone.

He's not something she can _get_ back.

#

Natasha never bothered too much with money. Money is a rich man's game and Natasha's currency is blood. Stark's got more of it than Natasha's seen dead bodies, enough to make any of the problems in their path fade away. Stark's money causes a lot of people to look the other way, and Natasha finally understands why maybe people get fixated on it, because things go well, and when Clint wakes up in a Stark-funded med bay, Marta's viral treatments have worked.

He doesn't remember anything, and maybe that's for the best.

Marta tends to him, despite Stark offering several times to pay for someone else to do it, and she runs the test and gives him the all-clear, and she does it with so much grace that Natasha feels clumsy next to her.

"So I'm fine?" Clint says, blinking several times.

"All clear," Marta says, and it's a brilliant act. She could be a marvellous spy. For that moment, Natasha might even believe Marta's heart isn't broken.

Clint nods, unaware of what's going on around him, and follows Natasha's motion for him to leave.

He doesn't leave as quickly as he could. Clint pauses at the threshold and looks back, and Marta's expression switches from that infinitely sad _saudade_ into something more neutral. It takes longer this time.

Natasha frowns. The sadness lingers behind the doctor's eyes, despite the way her smile creases her face into a very pleasant sight.

"Take care, Mr. Barton," Marta tells him, and firmly turns her back on them; the universal medical code for _you're dismissed_.  

Clint looks at the doctor and for a moment Natasha can't breathe, because Clint's looking at Marta, looking for something _more,_ but he shakes himself, shaking the emotion off.

Marta keeps her back turned and doesn't look back.

That's the best way to go forward, Natasha thinks, and feels a rush of empathy that due to Clint she can _feel._

And although the situation's sad for Marta, and sad for whoever Aaron Cross used to be, Clint Barton's not a bad thing for the world to have, and Natasha can't regret this version of events at all.


End file.
